


You Are Not Alone In This

by missbip0lar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, DeanCas Week 2013, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Endverse, M/M, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:20:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbip0lar/pseuds/missbip0lar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and I are a mess, but somehow we work. And neither of us will ever be truly alone, as long as we have each other.</p>
<p>Contribution to DeanCas Week 2013 over on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Not Alone In This

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the Mumford and Sons song "Timshel".
> 
> Kripke owns Dean and Cas and the Supernatural universe, all I own are my mistakes.

Over the past five years we’ve watched one another fall apart. I watched helplessly as Dean spiraled into near-insanity after Sam said yes to Lucifer, and Dean has watched me spiral into drug addiction and a case of alcoholism that rivals even his own. We are a mess, but somehow we work. I will follow Dean to the ends of the earth and back, and he’s told me he can’t do anything of worth without me by his side. I love him, the way my Father loved all of humanity and more. I no longer hold any angelic Grace within me, my place in Heaven has been lost to me, but as long as I can live out my remaining months or years beside Dean, I’ll die happy.

Falling, losing my wings, it took time. And Dean stayed with me through all of it, talking me through the hunger and exhaustion and sleep deprivation with a look of concern in his eye that he only wears for me. I see that same look now sometimes, when I’ve done one hit too many and the LSD makes me feel closer to Heaven and my Father than I have in years. He is worried about me, and I about him, but neither of us can put our selfishness and self-righteousness aside for long enough to properly care for the other.

Dean and I take care of one another in different ways now.

Sometimes I spread myself out beneath him, writhing and high as a kite as he thrusts into me again and again. Sometimes I bend him over the table in the building where we hold strategy meetings, strip him of his pants and take him from behind until his knees buckle and his fingernails leave marks on the wooden tabletop. Sometimes he holds me while I cry about my brothers and sisters in Heaven. Sometimes I hold him while he cries about Sam. Sometimes we are soldiers, planning and fighting Croatoans and being forced into killing members of our own camp that have been turned. And sometimes we are simply two broken men awaiting our deaths, together.

The Apocalypse draws nearer with each day, and the lines in Dean’s forehead that speak of the endless atrocities we’ve all seen grow more and more prominent as well. He is aging long before his time, and I know that the stress of having to save the world from his little brother weighs heavily on him. He is leaning with his back against mine now, taking a home-grown joint from my hand and taking a long pull from it before knocking back another shot of whiskey from our shared bottle.

“We lost Jones,” he grunts, and I can barely make out his voice over the sounds of celebration in the camp.

“Your mission was successful, though, Dean,” I remind him as I take both the joint and bottle back from him and attempt a playful nudge with my elbow. Dean doesn’t respond. I sigh and turn to face him, grab his shoulder to encourage him to face me as well. “You’re not alone, Dean,” I say, as if I haven’t told him as much before. “I know how difficult losing your family can be – I’ve lost mine too, remember? So have the majority of the others here. Jones lost his wife and child to the Apocalypse, and now he doesn’t have to feel the pain of losing them anymore.”

“But they’re out there celebrating like he didn’t even matter,” Dean grumbles, kicking off his boots and maneuvering himself to the head of the bed to lean back and relax.

“Would you rather they mourn?” I ask him. “Would you rather see the entire encampment walking around looking somber and defeated like they do after an unsuccessful mission with multiple casualties?” Dean clenches his jaw, and I know he’s itching to make a comeback, but I continue before he has the chance. “I’m not saying that one casualty isn’t bad enough, Dean. I’m just saying it could have been much worse.”

I climb into his lap and take a swallow from the bottle of whiskey, then lean my head down to capture him lips.

“Better to lose Jones than our Fearless Leader,” I whisper against his mouth. I kiss him again, and he responds graciously, opening to me and spreading his legs so I can position myself between them.

Dean pulls my shirt over my head, and my pants follow quickly behind. He lifts himself off the bed enough for me to slide his jeans and boxers down, and he strips himself of his shirt before sitting up and reinitiating our kiss. His knees are drawn up, his legs spread, and the fingers of my unoccupied hand caress his inner thighs as the muscles beneath the skin jump at the contact. I love watching him come undone like this for me, moaning and panting, with a wet mouth and dilated pupils.

“Lay back,” I breathe, and Dean does. I put the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, snuff out the joint in the ashtray, then reach into the cluttered drawer – dig through prescription pill bottles and baggies of white powder and small squares of paper that hold all the mysteries of the universe – to locate the mostly-empty bottle of lubricant that I save specifically for my nights with Dean.

I coat my fingers with the slippery fluid and ease Dean open, taking my time to prepare him so I can hear him surrender to it completely. He rolls his hips to take my fingers deeper, clenches his muscles to urge me to get on with it, cries out when I brush across his prostate, begs me to fuck him. As soon as I withdraw my fingers, Dean is turning over, his chest on the bed and his ass in the air. I wiggle a finger inside, just to see his body suck me in, and search out his prostate again. He jerks and moans when I find it, his thighs trembling and his pulse fluttering beneath the delicate skin of his neck.

“Come on, Cas,” he growls. “Not gonna wait all night. Fuck me already.”

I pull away from him completely and pop open the bottle of lube once again, spreading much less than recommended over my cock as I lean down and blow a cool breath onto Dean’s pucker. It twitches once, and that’s all the invitation I need to lick a broad stripe across his hole and watch him shudder. 

“Cas…” he warns, face stuffed into my pillow, and I huff out a laugh as I ease up behind him.

“Yes, Fearless Leader,” I concede, and my voice drips with the sarcasm I learned from him and him alone. 

I place a steadying hand on his hip, guide my erection forward until it presses with very little pressure against Dean’s entrance, and pause.

“Slow and healing or quick and dirty?” I ask quietly. It’s the million dollar question, and it always has been with us. We always need one or the other; a slow and meaningful lovemaking session that could last for hours and reminds the both of us that we’re in this together – that neither of us are alone – or a rough, filthy fuck that hurts so good that it makes us forget about the shitty hands we’ve been dealt, where we can focus on one another’s shouts of passion and drown out everything else for a while.

“Is there some sort of happy medium?” Dean asks, just as quiet, and I drape myself over his back to kiss the back of his neck as I slowly sink home.

Dean is hot inside, and tight around my cock. But he adjusts quickly, and soon is impatiently pushing back against me, silently telling me move. We start slow, with my forehead resting between his shoulder blades and my fingers splayed over his hips. Dean reaches back with one hand to grip my thigh.

“Faster,” he breathes, and I obey. 

Soon we are filling the room with our voices and the bed is slamming against the wall with every thrust. We move in perfect unison, and Dean is moaning and crying out and gasping my name. My chest slides over his back and my hips are slamming into the swell of his ass each time I press further inside him.

“I love you,” I whisper against his skin, completely unsure if he can hear it. “You’re not alone, Dean, I’m here with you – I’ll be here til the end.”

I feel lightheaded, and there is color blooming behind my eyelids, and I’m unsure of whether it’s because I’m _so close_ – teetering on the edge of sweet oblivion – or if the three hits of acid I took earlier are finally making an appearance. I twist my hips just so, and Dean shouts and claws at the sheets, his arms flexing and his breathing growing ragged.

I sit back, my legs folded under me, and pull Dean by the hips so he’s seated on my lap. He’s still facing away from me, lifting himself almost all the way off of my before dropping back down. His cock is rock-hard, red, and neglected, spearing up from between his legs and I take it in my hand. Dean can’t seem to decide if he wants to fuck up into my hand or press further back onto my dick, and he makes a sound caught somewhere between a whine and a growl. He puts his hand over mine, and together we stroke him faster. I thrust deeper, sure to drag my cock against that cluster of nerves inside him that drives him wild, and Dean’s head falls back on a moan.

Dean’s breathing picks up, the way he chants my name is urgent, and his voice echoes in my ear.

“Cas, I’m gonna…” he pants, and I nod, far beyond speech at this point, and then we’re both chasing down our climax.

The light and color behind my eyelids intensifies, and that feeling in the pit of my stomach is spreading into my groin. 

“Dean,” I hear myself groan, and he answers in kind, my name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.

We release together, breathing hard and trembling through our orgasms.

Afterwards, Dean and I are a tangled mess of sweaty limbs, content and sated and temporarily at ease. The celebration outside seems to have died down to a dull roar, the early-to-bed types retreating to their cabins for the night. We lie together beneath the ratty comforter, Dean brushing my hair back from my face as I light up the forgotten joint from earlier. I take a long drag off of it and hand it to Dean who, despite his long-suffering sigh, takes a few puffs and hands it back 

“You’re not alone either, you know,” he mutters. “You don’t have to drown yourself in drugs and booze to cope. I’m… I could help.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, rolling my eyes, “because you’re the poster child for a healthy lifestyle, right?”

It was a low blow, and I know it, but his offers to help me – to get me off the drugs – it hurts in my chest and I don’t know why, and I’d rather not analyze it now.

Dean just sighs again.

“Yeah, whatever, Cas. Let’s get some sleep. Can I hold you?”

I nod and turn away from him, once again snuffing out the joint and settling in to his embrace for another sleepless night of beautiful colors and praying to a Father that I no longer believe in.

Dean and I are a mess, but somehow we work. And neither of us will ever be truly alone, as long as we have each other.


End file.
